Vit. It is strange—but oft,
Midst festal songs and garlands, o’er my soul
Death comes, with some dull image! As you spoke
Of those whose blood is claim’d, I thought for them
Who, in a darkness thicker than the night
E’er wove with all her clouds, have pined so long,
How blessèd were the stroke which makes them things
Of that invisible world, wherein, we trust,
There is at least no bondage! But should we,
From such a scene as this, where all earth’s joys